Nous sommes le
23 Nivôse, An 215
La figure humaine n'est pas faite pour être vue. Un visage est la vie intérieure d'un autre visage.
Le visage... est, dans les regards comme un oiseau entre les serres d'un oiseau.
Le visage... La figure est la lumière du corps humain, elle est la rose où se transforment en regards, tous les secrets d'un corps, sa vie profonde, l'action de la vie sur lui.
La figure : le visage est un firmament, azur de toutes les profondeurs accumulées..
Toute la lumière noire de la vie physique d'un corps est dans le visage, comme la lumière dans une forêt...
Le visage n'est pas pour être vu, mais pour se couvrir de regards.
La figure humaine... est une frondaison de transparences dont une lumière plus transparente ouvre les fleurs... Il est la profondeur qui porte des fleurs dans la profondeur des regards.
La figure humaine ouvre à mon visage une profondeur dans ses yeux...
Personne n'a vu une figure humaine. Le visage la cache. Elle est dans le regard comme la fleur dans une fleur... Visage qui a sa nudité dans les larmes.
La figure est un objet où le regard au lieu de voir, attend. Pourquoi ? Elle est l'azur dans le feuillage, la seule place du corps qui a une chance de durer. La figure sollicite l'image, elle a inventé la durée, la reproduction.
La figure est la fusion de la lumière et du regard.
Joë Bousquet
Joë Bousquet (Narbonne, 1897 - Carcassonne, 1950) est un poète français. Blessé en 1918, il reste paralysé et reste allité toute sa vie à Carcassonne.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Destiny
DESTINY
A new poem by Jon van Leuven
No place is forever, not even a path.
Even if it leads on forever –
which can’t always be ascertained.
We need to look ahead, yet build the way,
and the way to the way, believing these will last
even when they no longer lead anywhere.
Stepping stones, pausing points, mere markers
of faith in the outcome are increments of infinity.
They take on a life of their own, whose sheer humility
helps them to endure while the end may not.
Their wear and tear appeal to what makes us human:
awareness of suffering and the urge to repair them
even though the repairs in turn are bound
to crumble and call for repairing. Ad infinitum.
This struck me on the trail to the hilltop,
disused and overgrown, its side walls split
by rain or roots at intervals, strewing rocks
so one hardly sees how to follow it further.
Ancient hoofprints, plodding in both directions,
show that ends exist, and indeed beginnings,
or did till lately. Possibly you yourself
forgot to pass through some day or night, sealing its fate.
Even Sisyphus wouldn’t know the start
from the sequel of fixing it, rolling back the rubble,
stamping the stubble, going to salvation’s trouble –
but for its being there, every inch, for the purpose.
Distinguishing, beat by heartbeat, a route from ruts
just filling up like time’s tooth feeding guts.
A new poem by Jon van Leuven
No place is forever, not even a path.
Even if it leads on forever –
which can’t always be ascertained.
We need to look ahead, yet build the way,
and the way to the way, believing these will last
even when they no longer lead anywhere.
Stepping stones, pausing points, mere markers
of faith in the outcome are increments of infinity.
They take on a life of their own, whose sheer humility
helps them to endure while the end may not.
Their wear and tear appeal to what makes us human:
awareness of suffering and the urge to repair them
even though the repairs in turn are bound
to crumble and call for repairing. Ad infinitum.
This struck me on the trail to the hilltop,
disused and overgrown, its side walls split
by rain or roots at intervals, strewing rocks
so one hardly sees how to follow it further.
Ancient hoofprints, plodding in both directions,
show that ends exist, and indeed beginnings,
or did till lately. Possibly you yourself
forgot to pass through some day or night, sealing its fate.
Even Sisyphus wouldn’t know the start
from the sequel of fixing it, rolling back the rubble,
stamping the stubble, going to salvation’s trouble –
but for its being there, every inch, for the purpose.
Distinguishing, beat by heartbeat, a route from ruts
just filling up like time’s tooth feeding guts.
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